There is much to write about, especially in the wake of the student loan provisions of the health care bill, and I will get to that soon.
But I want to clarify a post I'd made about how to get bonuses and/or keep your job regarding hitting major targets. There is also a system for getting a bonus check and keeping your job that is called NPV (net personal value).
NPV is essentially how much profit the company believes you should be pulling in so that they can justify paying you - a strange variation on commission sales. It is a calculation based on rehabilitated loans, amount of money you get paid in, number of wage garnishments, and dollar amounts of hardship programs. Different percentages are figured in for different amounts paid on loans, and obviously hardship programs are paid at a much lesser rate than rehabilitated loans.
The best of all worlds is to be able to hit both goals and NPV, in which case you get a substantial bonus check. I was pretty sure my goals were well out of reach at mid-March, and I hadn't thought at all about NPV - it was a complex calculation I hadn't put many brain cells toward.
But then a funny thing happened. I set up some very sizable hardship programs - several of them. And in the last half of the month, some large loans went through rehabilitation.
So I'm not near goal - I've only hit 70% of my rehab dollar goal with one day left, and only about 30% of another related target (though 100% of another), but with the hardship programs (over 100K total for the month) I will be at a high enough NPV to keep my job. Maybe even get a bonus check - we'll see.
I have mixed feelings about this - there is a part of me that was looking for this strange trip to come to its end, and now I'm staggering along for another month. On the other hand, with changes in personal life, this might also buy me the time to get things together and figure out what I need to do at this point and what I want to do.
And a final day to see if I can close out big.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
You can only help those who want it
So I finally had a resolution on the hardship program I wrote about in the "Disability" post. I'd called the borrower a couple of times, and she told me that her sister was very busy lately, and might have time later on in the month to help her with the paperwork.
I had it pointed out to me that the account had been in an "application in process" status for close to two months, and there needed to be a resolution on it immediately. Contact the sister and explain the situation.
So I called the sister, and got the husband on the phone instead. He explained to me that he believed my offer to be a scam, that he was having a lawyer read over the paperwork on his own time, they would contact us when they were good and goddamned ready, and by the way don't ever fucking call this house again.
Click.
And so ends that. As the sister is no longer a valid reference with her number marked as a Do Not Call number, the program is off the table. Loan is moved from "Application in progress" to "Direct Refuse to Pay". The codes show a direct refusal of the hardship program, which essentially means balance in full is due. Calls to this number will be direct and blunt. There is the possibility of her disability payments being garnished in the future at 15%.
I try to tell myself I did everything I could, but if I didn't have nagging doubts I wouldn't still be awake at quarter to four.
In the end one can only help those who want to be helped. It's a heck of a position, and one that I'm facing with a number of other hardship programs I have out there. But I'm just going to have to let them go, one way or another. I hope things turn around for them. But if they aren't willing to grab the rope, I can't do anything.
I had it pointed out to me that the account had been in an "application in process" status for close to two months, and there needed to be a resolution on it immediately. Contact the sister and explain the situation.
So I called the sister, and got the husband on the phone instead. He explained to me that he believed my offer to be a scam, that he was having a lawyer read over the paperwork on his own time, they would contact us when they were good and goddamned ready, and by the way don't ever fucking call this house again.
Click.
And so ends that. As the sister is no longer a valid reference with her number marked as a Do Not Call number, the program is off the table. Loan is moved from "Application in progress" to "Direct Refuse to Pay". The codes show a direct refusal of the hardship program, which essentially means balance in full is due. Calls to this number will be direct and blunt. There is the possibility of her disability payments being garnished in the future at 15%.
I try to tell myself I did everything I could, but if I didn't have nagging doubts I wouldn't still be awake at quarter to four.
In the end one can only help those who want to be helped. It's a heck of a position, and one that I'm facing with a number of other hardship programs I have out there. But I'm just going to have to let them go, one way or another. I hope things turn around for them. But if they aren't willing to grab the rope, I can't do anything.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
A musical interlude
I spend a lot of my workday listening to music, or at least brief snippets of music. "Company X - can you hold please?" and we're off.
There's a whole range of hold music out there. Many times the hold music is soft jazz, or light classical. I've so far only encountered one company that used the classic "Muzak" - an arrangement of the Beatles "In My Life" for harpsichord and Pan flute. (And they kept me on hold for the whole song.)
Occasionally I get internal advertising for the company itself, which can be interesting to find out what the company does. (We are discouraged from doing research before calling - just dial the number and stop wasting time.) Just good to know what's going on before they pick up the phone or transfer you to voice mail.
The ones that crack me up are the ones that put on radio signals. Aside from being illegal (learned from my days at Muzak), you might just hear competitor's commercials while on hold. Not good.
Internally, we have a Miles Davis song I actually used to like, and probably will again once it's no longer a Pavlovian trigger for annoyance at having to waste my time waiting for a department who never picks up their damn phone.
For external calls, we have no hold music. Which requires telling people we have no hold music, so they don't think we've hung up on them. Don't know why we can't inflict Miles Davis on them as well.
The other musical interludes I get during the day are ringback tones. Ringback tones are a sort of face to the world - sometimes a favorite song, sometimes a sentiment to express religious devotion, or a pose to show how cool you might happen to be.
Some are funny, some are great songs, and some are just plain disturbing (the woman who had a song where the singer proclaimed over and over, "Daddy, will you be my Daddy? Oh Daddy, I need a Daddy..." made my skin crawl every time I called).
Answering machines are a whole separate post. But I leave you with what would be my ringback tone (it's the chorus section for the tone) if my phone weren't too old to load one on:
There's a whole range of hold music out there. Many times the hold music is soft jazz, or light classical. I've so far only encountered one company that used the classic "Muzak" - an arrangement of the Beatles "In My Life" for harpsichord and Pan flute. (And they kept me on hold for the whole song.)
Occasionally I get internal advertising for the company itself, which can be interesting to find out what the company does. (We are discouraged from doing research before calling - just dial the number and stop wasting time.) Just good to know what's going on before they pick up the phone or transfer you to voice mail.
The ones that crack me up are the ones that put on radio signals. Aside from being illegal (learned from my days at Muzak), you might just hear competitor's commercials while on hold. Not good.
Internally, we have a Miles Davis song I actually used to like, and probably will again once it's no longer a Pavlovian trigger for annoyance at having to waste my time waiting for a department who never picks up their damn phone.
For external calls, we have no hold music. Which requires telling people we have no hold music, so they don't think we've hung up on them. Don't know why we can't inflict Miles Davis on them as well.
The other musical interludes I get during the day are ringback tones. Ringback tones are a sort of face to the world - sometimes a favorite song, sometimes a sentiment to express religious devotion, or a pose to show how cool you might happen to be.
Some are funny, some are great songs, and some are just plain disturbing (the woman who had a song where the singer proclaimed over and over, "Daddy, will you be my Daddy? Oh Daddy, I need a Daddy..." made my skin crawl every time I called).
Answering machines are a whole separate post. But I leave you with what would be my ringback tone (it's the chorus section for the tone) if my phone weren't too old to load one on:
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Denial - not just a river in Egypt
One of the responses I get to calls when people find out I'm calling on their student loans is to say they will contact their original lender and/or the guarantor to see about what can be done regarding the loan, thank you very much.
Occasionally I just get a hangup after that, but usually they are looking for some sort of validation. A statement along the lines of, "Oh, yes, well, I'm glad to be of service to remind you of this pressing debt, thank you so much for answering your phone and I'm sure you will deal with this matter promptly."
They aren't going to get it.
There are usually three institutions they want to speak with, and if we can get a word in edgewise, these are also the responses:
"I'll call the school and see about this - after all, I never attended classes."
The school got paid when the loan was taken out. You don't owe them funds, nor can they or will they reimburse funds paid out two/five/twenty years ago. No matter what the circumstances for why you believe the school shouldn't have taken your loan money, they did. Your window for arguing this, short of hiring and attorney and filing a lawsuit, is over. Let's talk.
"I'll talk to the bank that I took the loan out with originally."
They got paid. When your loan went into default, the guarantor paid the original lender. The original lender will tell you that, and inform you to deal with whatever collection agency has your loan now. That's us. Let's talk.
"I'll talk to the guarantor and see what we can work out."
We are collecting on their behalf. They are paying us to call you. If you call them directly, they will tell you to call us. Let's talk.
In some cases, it's a delaying tactic - there is someone else I can deal with who is not you, so let me tell you I will contact them and that means you may get bored and go away.
But in a lot of cases, it really is denial. No one wants to believe they are really dealing with a collection agency, or they want to believe there is some way they can escape having to deal with it. Collections only happen to bad people, they only happen to other people, not to me, certainly. There is a way to get out of this.
And those people do get really excited about the rehabilitation program when they find out how it works. It's just a matter of keeping them on the phone. Unlike the angry person I spoke to in the previous post, who you really can't do anything with.
Though I suppose the ultimate denials as the ones who I hear their voicemail message over and over and over...and they never pick up.
Occasionally I just get a hangup after that, but usually they are looking for some sort of validation. A statement along the lines of, "Oh, yes, well, I'm glad to be of service to remind you of this pressing debt, thank you so much for answering your phone and I'm sure you will deal with this matter promptly."
They aren't going to get it.
There are usually three institutions they want to speak with, and if we can get a word in edgewise, these are also the responses:
"I'll call the school and see about this - after all, I never attended classes."
The school got paid when the loan was taken out. You don't owe them funds, nor can they or will they reimburse funds paid out two/five/twenty years ago. No matter what the circumstances for why you believe the school shouldn't have taken your loan money, they did. Your window for arguing this, short of hiring and attorney and filing a lawsuit, is over. Let's talk.
"I'll talk to the bank that I took the loan out with originally."
They got paid. When your loan went into default, the guarantor paid the original lender. The original lender will tell you that, and inform you to deal with whatever collection agency has your loan now. That's us. Let's talk.
"I'll talk to the guarantor and see what we can work out."
We are collecting on their behalf. They are paying us to call you. If you call them directly, they will tell you to call us. Let's talk.
In some cases, it's a delaying tactic - there is someone else I can deal with who is not you, so let me tell you I will contact them and that means you may get bored and go away.
But in a lot of cases, it really is denial. No one wants to believe they are really dealing with a collection agency, or they want to believe there is some way they can escape having to deal with it. Collections only happen to bad people, they only happen to other people, not to me, certainly. There is a way to get out of this.
And those people do get really excited about the rehabilitation program when they find out how it works. It's just a matter of keeping them on the phone. Unlike the angry person I spoke to in the previous post, who you really can't do anything with.
Though I suppose the ultimate denials as the ones who I hear their voicemail message over and over and over...and they never pick up.
Shooting the messenger
Tuesday was one of those days where the yelling and screaming just got to me, and I called in sick on Wednesday. Having a day off can be dangerous, and in this case led to a rash of personal decisions that might not have happened otherwise. Sometimes you just need something to push you over the edge, and Tuesday was it.
I called a small balance account I'd gotten a positive phone number for - a small balance account being any loan under about 2K, but still high enough to put into a rehabilitation program. I'd called in the morning, was told he'd just left to run an errand, and he called back immediately.
And he was pissed.
It was a brand new account to the office, so I saw no payment history, and the first thing he started in on me for was the 6K tax offset he'd been hit with just two weeks previously.
"Dude, how do I get that back? My loans were in deferment. I need that cash. I'm unemployed, and that was going to be able to put money in the house."
I'd started a bit of the conversation with the financial statement to move the process forward after continued discussion about why things might have fallen through and the possibilities of what might have happened with the deferment. Reasonable guy.
Then the fatal words. "Hold on, let me put my wife on - you have my permission to speak with her."
(The "talk to my wife" with men goes one of two ways. If he is being belligerent and unreasonable, then getting his wife on the phone usually diffuses the situation and things resolve with a rehabilitated loan. If the man is being cool and reasonable prior to that statement, you are screwed. Oh - and turn down the heatset volume. Quick.)
Yelling I can handle. Four letter screaming fits I can deal with. Condescension, on the other hand...
"Look here - I don't know what you are trying to peddle, but we are having none of it. You need to tell me why you think we owe you this money, why you think we should pay any of it to you. I will simply call bank X that we borrowed it from, and you will get nothing."
I tried to explain to her that "bank X" had already been paid, and she was now dealing with the guarantor.
"Fine - give me their number then."
I can, but they will tell you to contact us.
"So you're telling me you can't give me any information about this whatsoever...can you do anything at all, or do you just sit on the phone yammer at people?"
After a little more time of this, I finally hand her off to the senior collector. She is going to fax over a whole pile of papers, and then we'll see what happens.
All told - over an hour and a half on the phone.
Next up is what I think should be a guaranteed rehabilitation. It was an account that I found a place of employment on the credit report (more new business) and needed to follow up on.
Called the business, everyone very polite. Oh yes, they say, she works over in this department - let me transfer you over there. Line was busy, and after investing the half hour or so into getting the direct number from the place of employment, I figured this would be a good return to form after that disaster of a call.
"Yes."
"Hi, my name is Nick, I was calling because..."
"Don't you EVER call me here again, you slimy son of a bitch."
Click.
15K, down the tubes. No home phone, references disconnected. Garnishment for someone in April, but not me, since I doubt I'll be around by then.
I took my fifteen minute break, grabbed a cup of coffee, and went outside. It was dark already, so I just walked over to the edge of the parking lot and stared out into the blackness. If I could have found any way to justify just getting into my car and driving off at that point, I would have.
This is hit goal or be finished month, and up to that point I didn't have a single rehabilitated loan (as of now I still only have two). A number of things in my personal life have also come to a breaking point as well, including some options regarding the future coming to a point of no return (if they haven't already and I'm just not paying attention).
So I got in my car on Wednesday, and called in an emergency day. First time calling in because I didn't feel like showing up, which is definitely the sign of needing to move on. And I will, along with having made some other serious changes. Things are being shaken up, and hopefully for the better. We'll find out soon enough.
I called a small balance account I'd gotten a positive phone number for - a small balance account being any loan under about 2K, but still high enough to put into a rehabilitation program. I'd called in the morning, was told he'd just left to run an errand, and he called back immediately.
And he was pissed.
It was a brand new account to the office, so I saw no payment history, and the first thing he started in on me for was the 6K tax offset he'd been hit with just two weeks previously.
"Dude, how do I get that back? My loans were in deferment. I need that cash. I'm unemployed, and that was going to be able to put money in the house."
I'd started a bit of the conversation with the financial statement to move the process forward after continued discussion about why things might have fallen through and the possibilities of what might have happened with the deferment. Reasonable guy.
Then the fatal words. "Hold on, let me put my wife on - you have my permission to speak with her."
(The "talk to my wife" with men goes one of two ways. If he is being belligerent and unreasonable, then getting his wife on the phone usually diffuses the situation and things resolve with a rehabilitated loan. If the man is being cool and reasonable prior to that statement, you are screwed. Oh - and turn down the heatset volume. Quick.)
Yelling I can handle. Four letter screaming fits I can deal with. Condescension, on the other hand...
"Look here - I don't know what you are trying to peddle, but we are having none of it. You need to tell me why you think we owe you this money, why you think we should pay any of it to you. I will simply call bank X that we borrowed it from, and you will get nothing."
I tried to explain to her that "bank X" had already been paid, and she was now dealing with the guarantor.
"Fine - give me their number then."
I can, but they will tell you to contact us.
"So you're telling me you can't give me any information about this whatsoever...can you do anything at all, or do you just sit on the phone yammer at people?"
After a little more time of this, I finally hand her off to the senior collector. She is going to fax over a whole pile of papers, and then we'll see what happens.
All told - over an hour and a half on the phone.
Next up is what I think should be a guaranteed rehabilitation. It was an account that I found a place of employment on the credit report (more new business) and needed to follow up on.
Called the business, everyone very polite. Oh yes, they say, she works over in this department - let me transfer you over there. Line was busy, and after investing the half hour or so into getting the direct number from the place of employment, I figured this would be a good return to form after that disaster of a call.
"Yes."
"Hi, my name is Nick, I was calling because..."
"Don't you EVER call me here again, you slimy son of a bitch."
Click.
15K, down the tubes. No home phone, references disconnected. Garnishment for someone in April, but not me, since I doubt I'll be around by then.
I took my fifteen minute break, grabbed a cup of coffee, and went outside. It was dark already, so I just walked over to the edge of the parking lot and stared out into the blackness. If I could have found any way to justify just getting into my car and driving off at that point, I would have.
This is hit goal or be finished month, and up to that point I didn't have a single rehabilitated loan (as of now I still only have two). A number of things in my personal life have also come to a breaking point as well, including some options regarding the future coming to a point of no return (if they haven't already and I'm just not paying attention).
So I got in my car on Wednesday, and called in an emergency day. First time calling in because I didn't feel like showing up, which is definitely the sign of needing to move on. And I will, along with having made some other serious changes. Things are being shaken up, and hopefully for the better. We'll find out soon enough.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Keeping up appearances
On Saturday I got my first haircut since July. No, I am not posting pictures.
One of the things I realized relatively early on in collections is that no one cares what you look like. You're on the phone. No one actually ever sees you, so what does it really matter?
In theory there is a dress code, but if the building hits goal for the month everyone is allowed to "dress down" for the month. We've hit goal every month since I've been there, so the only time I ever dressed up was my first month in training.
There are a few criteria that can never be neglected. No hats. No open-toed shoes. No cargo pants (the extra pockets make security people nervous). No shorts. No shirts with inappropriate language.
So there is a wide range of appearances among collectors, especially among the younger crowd. Some with long crazy hair, some with a lot of tattoos, some with ear spacers (those odd tribal rings that stretch ears).
Managers, for the most part, dress business casual. There's one person I see around in a tie all the time - I'm not sure what his deal is, but more power to him.
I tend to show up mostly in jeans and a t-shirt or polo shirt of some kind. But when I saw the guy with the ear thingys and sleeve tattoos, I decided I could just grow my hair out and let the beard grow and be done with it. Heck - no one cares.
The thing I didn't realize was the way hair changes over time. Aside from growing grayer at an alarming rate, the consistency and pattern of hair changes. Those of you who remember me with long hair might remember the ringlets and curls, and thick billowing hair.
Not so much now. Right before I got it cut, I bore a striking resemblance to the Unabomber, or Nick Nolte's mugshot. (Okay, maybe I'll post pics on my Facebook page.)
I got lots of comments walking in today with short hair and a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard. A couple of people asked who the new guy was before realizing it was actually me.
Everyone seemed very approving, but I only got a couple of short comments from my manager. I'm guessing he figured out the reason for the haircut - if I'm going to start interviewing, I need to look slightly respectable. Which, on his end, means I've decided I'm not hitting goal this month.
And given that it's currently March 8th with not a single rehabbed loan, he's probably right.
One of the things I realized relatively early on in collections is that no one cares what you look like. You're on the phone. No one actually ever sees you, so what does it really matter?
In theory there is a dress code, but if the building hits goal for the month everyone is allowed to "dress down" for the month. We've hit goal every month since I've been there, so the only time I ever dressed up was my first month in training.
There are a few criteria that can never be neglected. No hats. No open-toed shoes. No cargo pants (the extra pockets make security people nervous). No shorts. No shirts with inappropriate language.
So there is a wide range of appearances among collectors, especially among the younger crowd. Some with long crazy hair, some with a lot of tattoos, some with ear spacers (those odd tribal rings that stretch ears).
Managers, for the most part, dress business casual. There's one person I see around in a tie all the time - I'm not sure what his deal is, but more power to him.
I tend to show up mostly in jeans and a t-shirt or polo shirt of some kind. But when I saw the guy with the ear thingys and sleeve tattoos, I decided I could just grow my hair out and let the beard grow and be done with it. Heck - no one cares.
The thing I didn't realize was the way hair changes over time. Aside from growing grayer at an alarming rate, the consistency and pattern of hair changes. Those of you who remember me with long hair might remember the ringlets and curls, and thick billowing hair.
Not so much now. Right before I got it cut, I bore a striking resemblance to the Unabomber, or Nick Nolte's mugshot. (Okay, maybe I'll post pics on my Facebook page.)
I got lots of comments walking in today with short hair and a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard. A couple of people asked who the new guy was before realizing it was actually me.
Everyone seemed very approving, but I only got a couple of short comments from my manager. I'm guessing he figured out the reason for the haircut - if I'm going to start interviewing, I need to look slightly respectable. Which, on his end, means I've decided I'm not hitting goal this month.
And given that it's currently March 8th with not a single rehabbed loan, he's probably right.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Sunday at the office
One of the early stated requirements of the collections job is having to work two four-hour weekend shifts every month. The idea is to not overburden people with working every weekend, but still making a decent number of calls during times when borrowers and relatives are likely to be home.
Saturday hours are fixed at 10am - 2pm for the building. Working west coast accounts, this means I can't call the majority of my borrowers until an hour into my shift, which strikes me as insane and a horrific waste of time.
So I work on Sundays. The building is open for work from 12pm-8pm, and I generally try to work from 1-5 or 12-4. Today was 1-5, a quiet day of just myself, one other collector, and our manager.
One of the other side benefits to working on Sundays is that is the day our client gives us new business. So hundreds of accounts that have never been touched (by us, anyway) show up. Anyone who is there on Sunday can work them, and if you get them into a program, it's yours.
Sundays are kind of hit and miss. On the one hand, they tend to be quiet, since most of the east-coast lines of business prefer to work Saturdays. Sometimes the new business has gems to be converted. Sometimes you get some decent work done. And sometimes you just get yelled at and told you're going to Hell for working on the Lord's Day of Rest.
Collections is one of those areas where people still consider Sunday a sacred day of sorts. People who will go to Wal-Mart after church, call customer service for six or seven different things in the afternoon, or order stuff online are horrified that we have the gall to work on The Lord's Day. And will scream that we are agents of Satan or some sort of thing, and then hang up.
And having grown up in a rarefied time and place, I do remember the idea of Sunday as that day. In Maine in the 80's, stores over a certain square footage couldn't be open, so all you could do was go to the corner store (Nanou's or the tiny little shop just past the railroad tracks that isn't there anymore with the older couple - that's a remembrance for a different essay) and spend a quiet day at home.
Today wasn't horribly exciting - found some places of employment I need to follow up on tomorrow, but didn't actually talk to anyone new. Just got to take a small break in the middle of my shift, and look out over the valley with the melting snow. A day I wish I was doing something else, but weekend days at the office always feel like that.
Saturday hours are fixed at 10am - 2pm for the building. Working west coast accounts, this means I can't call the majority of my borrowers until an hour into my shift, which strikes me as insane and a horrific waste of time.
So I work on Sundays. The building is open for work from 12pm-8pm, and I generally try to work from 1-5 or 12-4. Today was 1-5, a quiet day of just myself, one other collector, and our manager.
One of the other side benefits to working on Sundays is that is the day our client gives us new business. So hundreds of accounts that have never been touched (by us, anyway) show up. Anyone who is there on Sunday can work them, and if you get them into a program, it's yours.
Sundays are kind of hit and miss. On the one hand, they tend to be quiet, since most of the east-coast lines of business prefer to work Saturdays. Sometimes the new business has gems to be converted. Sometimes you get some decent work done. And sometimes you just get yelled at and told you're going to Hell for working on the Lord's Day of Rest.
Collections is one of those areas where people still consider Sunday a sacred day of sorts. People who will go to Wal-Mart after church, call customer service for six or seven different things in the afternoon, or order stuff online are horrified that we have the gall to work on The Lord's Day. And will scream that we are agents of Satan or some sort of thing, and then hang up.
And having grown up in a rarefied time and place, I do remember the idea of Sunday as that day. In Maine in the 80's, stores over a certain square footage couldn't be open, so all you could do was go to the corner store (Nanou's or the tiny little shop just past the railroad tracks that isn't there anymore with the older couple - that's a remembrance for a different essay) and spend a quiet day at home.
Today wasn't horribly exciting - found some places of employment I need to follow up on tomorrow, but didn't actually talk to anyone new. Just got to take a small break in the middle of my shift, and look out over the valley with the melting snow. A day I wish I was doing something else, but weekend days at the office always feel like that.
The Holdup - Part 2
About a week or so after the holdup, I got a call from the Augusta police department to come down and look over the report and some items of interest in the case.
I was led into a small conference room, and was asked how things were going at the store. I told them I'd left, though not due solely to the holdup, and they said they understood even if it had been.
Apparently after the holdup, a couple of people had checked out of the Super 8 motel at 2am, which is an automatic phone call from the desk clerk to the police department. My wallet was found in the bushes outside the motel door, and a number of items relating to the robbery were inside.
"Do you think you could identify some of them?"
I said I'd give it a try.
First up were sunglasses - three different pair. "Which ones did I recognise as the perpetrators?"
Hmmm...well, not the ones with the K-mart price tag still on them...and certainly not the police issue aviator shades...that must mean the vaguely recognizable ones in the center.
All other items went through the same process, including the gun. (Standard police issue, shiny revolver...nope, gotta be that one.) Looking at it harmlessly on the table, I could see it was most likely a .22 target pistol - certainly not two feet across. (Though as a friend pointed out to me, a .22 at point blank range could still kill and do a lot of damage.)
We then went through my wallet, (all the now-cancelled cards intact, the three dollars in cash I had gone), and identified each and every single piece of paper. Anyone who has ever seen my wallet will tell you this is an insanely long process.
"And an American Express receipt..."
"A what?"
"You don't have an American Express card?"
I shook my head. "I don't even know anyone who has one."
The officer nodded. "Do you mind if we hang on to this?"
"Not at all, since it isn't mine."
I went over the story with the officers again, who agreed that the thief had probably overheard the conversation I'd had with the manager regarding my poor "drop" technique. Just odd to think I'd probably seen the man in the flesh a few times before.
They did finally catch the thieves in Boca Raton, FL. They used that AmEx card to charge motel rooms all the way down the coast, finally nailing them there due to making advance reservations.
Word of advice - when you're on the lam, pay cash. Or at least shred all your receipts.
I was led into a small conference room, and was asked how things were going at the store. I told them I'd left, though not due solely to the holdup, and they said they understood even if it had been.
Apparently after the holdup, a couple of people had checked out of the Super 8 motel at 2am, which is an automatic phone call from the desk clerk to the police department. My wallet was found in the bushes outside the motel door, and a number of items relating to the robbery were inside.
"Do you think you could identify some of them?"
I said I'd give it a try.
First up were sunglasses - three different pair. "Which ones did I recognise as the perpetrators?"
Hmmm...well, not the ones with the K-mart price tag still on them...and certainly not the police issue aviator shades...that must mean the vaguely recognizable ones in the center.
All other items went through the same process, including the gun. (Standard police issue, shiny revolver...nope, gotta be that one.) Looking at it harmlessly on the table, I could see it was most likely a .22 target pistol - certainly not two feet across. (Though as a friend pointed out to me, a .22 at point blank range could still kill and do a lot of damage.)
We then went through my wallet, (all the now-cancelled cards intact, the three dollars in cash I had gone), and identified each and every single piece of paper. Anyone who has ever seen my wallet will tell you this is an insanely long process.
"And an American Express receipt..."
"A what?"
"You don't have an American Express card?"
I shook my head. "I don't even know anyone who has one."
The officer nodded. "Do you mind if we hang on to this?"
"Not at all, since it isn't mine."
I went over the story with the officers again, who agreed that the thief had probably overheard the conversation I'd had with the manager regarding my poor "drop" technique. Just odd to think I'd probably seen the man in the flesh a few times before.
They did finally catch the thieves in Boca Raton, FL. They used that AmEx card to charge motel rooms all the way down the coast, finally nailing them there due to making advance reservations.
Word of advice - when you're on the lam, pay cash. Or at least shred all your receipts.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Holdup
I've had a wide range of other dead-end jobs, and one of them was convenience store clerk. For those of you familiar with the Augusta area, it was the Irving in North Augusta, right near UMA. Back when it was a seedy little gas station of brick and constant grime no matter how hard you buffed the floor.
I worked overnight shift - 10pm to 6am, or roughly thereabouts. It was understood that you show up at 9:30 in order to get things set up, and then might get out by 7 once the paperwork was done. But you got paid for 10pm-6am.
Overnight shift was when supposedly all the actual work around the store got done - cleaning, organizing, inventory, etc. But we always had a rush from the 2nd shift over at the semi-conductor plant come bombing through at 11pm to stock up on soda, snacks, and a few snuck beers to get through the overnight. So it didn't always get done. And my manager had no compunction about yelling at me in front of customers if something didn't get done. And there was usually something every day.
Relevent to this particular story, my manager was upset and yelling at me in front of customers for not properly spacing my "drops". You know that sign in front of a convenience store that says "Cashier has no more than $50"? The reason for that is when you get $100 in your drawer, you are supposed to put $50 in an envelope, mark the time and amount, and "drop" it in the safe under the counter. If it's more than $50, you better have a good explanation as to why.
My explanation of being the only one on duty to handle a rushing crowd from the semiconductor plant was not enough. "Nick, if it were $75 or $100, I could understand that. But you are regularly making $200 and $300 drops! This has got to stop! Keep on top of this! This is one of the most important things for overnight shift!"
Anything I didn't do was always the most important thing for overnight shift, so I filed this away as "manager rant", and headed out to Friendly's for breakfast and a chance to flirt with the cute waitress.
A few nights later, I was joking around with Jake, the full service pump attendant as he was headed out the door for the night. "Gina still back there?"
I nodded. "Going over her count. Again. In the back room."
He laughed. "You know, she had a nervous breakdown today with three people in line. Started this high-pitched shrieking and flailing her arms. Man, she needs to find a no-stress job before she has a heart attack. See ya later."
Fifteen minutes later, I was restocking the overhead cigarette counter, which when slid down blocked my view of the door. I pushed it up, and standing there in the doorway was a man in black pants, a black hooded sweatshirt, black sunglasses, and a black bandanna wrapped over his mouth. I could just see the top of his black moustache under his nose.
And a gun. Black automatic looking something or other, pointed straight at my stomach. I could feel my guts clenching where he was pointing the gun at me. The opening looked about two feet across staring down at it.
Fortunately, my hands were already raised from pushing up the cigarette rack. My mouth went dry, and I couldn't speak for a second.
I didn't have to - he did. "I want the money in the register, your wallet, and the setup drawer for the morning shift in the back."
"Yes, sir," I said. His voice sounded deep, flat, and normal, meaning not strung out and I might get out of this alive. I pulled the drawer out of the register, and pulled out the bills.
"Your wallet."
I reached down. "It's in my back pocket, I'm just reaching down for it, and now I'm pulling it out and putting it on the table." Not sure why I was talking him through it - just seemed like a good idea to slowly explain every motion to the man with the gun.
He looked around. "Is there anyone in the back room?"
My mind froze. Yes - Gina. Still filling out here paperwork and hour and a half after her shift ended. Gina, who started making high pitched squeaking noises from three customers in line. And what will she do with an armed robbery?
It was clear now. She will panic and flip out. And we're gonna die. It had all been going so well.
"Yes," I squeaked out.
He paused. "Fine - just give me the bills in the register."
I pulled them out as quick as I could, and he stuffed them into his pockets. "Don't even think of picking up that phone," he said, and ran out the door.
I slowly counted to thirty, and listened for the sound of a car. I didn't hear one. Waited again, picked up the phone, hit 911.
"Yes, sir - how can we help you?"
"I'm at the Irving Station in Augusta near UMA and we were just held up." I was reassured someone was on the way, and hung up the phone.
At that moment, Gina opened the door. "Did you just say we got robbed?"
My legs gave out - the adrenaline that had been keeping me up swept out and dropped me to the floor. I sat for a few moments while Gina got me some coffee, and then the police arrived.
I knew the officer, and he looked a bit sheepish walking in. Irving had a policy of free coffee for law enforcement, but the Maine State Police had told officers about a week before that they couldn't accept free coffee. The robbery had happened during the time he was normally getting his first cup of the overnight.
The only part of the questioning that annoyed me was listening to Gina talking about the two men at the window behind the building talking back and forth, and how grateful she'd been when then finally shut up and went away right after Jake left. She could finish her counting now that they weren't muttering back there. She didn't think they could have had anything to do with it though. And she nearly broke down sobbing when her husband came to get her.
At that point I finally called my manager to tell him what had happened - he was on vacation for a few days, and had asked he not be called. But I figured this was important.
"What happened? Alright - I gotta call the guy at the office up in Bangor. There's someone who's sent out when stores get held up. Should be there in a couple of hours. And you can't run the register until he gets there. Just lock the door from the inside and wait for him."
"Ummm...you're not coming out?"
"I'm on vacation. Unless you want me to call Martin to keep you company until the guy gets there - I could probably squeak that pay authorization by."
It was 12:30 by this point. Martin was a recently divorced, bitter, angry man given to loud rants about women and the unfairness of life. Not really who I had in mind for company.
"No, I'll be fine. I'll just clean."
He started to say something about buffing, and I hung up on him.
Everyone cleared out, and I locked the door. I drew a sign in marker saying "CLOSED" and taped it to the window. Then made a fresh pot of coffee, and started cleaning.
Most people who came by saw the sign, shrugged, and walked off. I was feeling a bit skittish, so anytime I saw headlights I headed for the back. The only time I came out was when I heard banging and someone screaming "I know you're in there - I see your FUCKING CAR."
I looked - not the holdup guy. He had long scraggly hair. "We're closed. Can't unlock the door."
"I need a gallon of milk and I need it RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Just one gallon."
I point at the sign. "We got held up - I can't sell anything tonight."
"Just one gallon, you ungrateful shit! This is a store!"
"And there are others open 24 hours - go away."
He stood there, staring at the window, fist raised to start pounding again. The he relaxed it, hung his head down, and walked back toward his car. He pulled out of the driveway at a snails pace, looked over to see if I'd changed my mind, then peeled out of the parking lot and off into the night.
Finally, at about 3am, the guy from Irving Central shows up. He took a look around and asked me where my manager was.
"Home sleeping, I guess."
He raised an eyebrow. "You got held up and he didn't come in?"
I shook my head. He wrote down something in a notebook, pulled the register tape out of the cash register, and then got down to helping me clean the store. He even showed me how to change the pad on the buffer so the floor was actually clean.
Betty, who is on first shift, came in and was surprised to see the HQ guy. I explained what happened, and she gasped. "Oh you poor thing! And you were here by yourself all night! How could he!"
"I'll be okay. But for right now I just need to go home and get sleep - I'm on tomorrow night."
She gasped. "Are you sure you'll feel safe?"
I nodded. "What, they're gonna hit the same store twice in two nights?"
I walked out to my car, climbed in, and started it. Friends from college were coming up to visit - it was spring break week, and they were going slightly crazy at home. There would be a chance to talk, decompress, and sort it all now. But right now, I needed breakfast.
I worked overnight shift - 10pm to 6am, or roughly thereabouts. It was understood that you show up at 9:30 in order to get things set up, and then might get out by 7 once the paperwork was done. But you got paid for 10pm-6am.
Overnight shift was when supposedly all the actual work around the store got done - cleaning, organizing, inventory, etc. But we always had a rush from the 2nd shift over at the semi-conductor plant come bombing through at 11pm to stock up on soda, snacks, and a few snuck beers to get through the overnight. So it didn't always get done. And my manager had no compunction about yelling at me in front of customers if something didn't get done. And there was usually something every day.
Relevent to this particular story, my manager was upset and yelling at me in front of customers for not properly spacing my "drops". You know that sign in front of a convenience store that says "Cashier has no more than $50"? The reason for that is when you get $100 in your drawer, you are supposed to put $50 in an envelope, mark the time and amount, and "drop" it in the safe under the counter. If it's more than $50, you better have a good explanation as to why.
My explanation of being the only one on duty to handle a rushing crowd from the semiconductor plant was not enough. "Nick, if it were $75 or $100, I could understand that. But you are regularly making $200 and $300 drops! This has got to stop! Keep on top of this! This is one of the most important things for overnight shift!"
Anything I didn't do was always the most important thing for overnight shift, so I filed this away as "manager rant", and headed out to Friendly's for breakfast and a chance to flirt with the cute waitress.
A few nights later, I was joking around with Jake, the full service pump attendant as he was headed out the door for the night. "Gina still back there?"
I nodded. "Going over her count. Again. In the back room."
He laughed. "You know, she had a nervous breakdown today with three people in line. Started this high-pitched shrieking and flailing her arms. Man, she needs to find a no-stress job before she has a heart attack. See ya later."
Fifteen minutes later, I was restocking the overhead cigarette counter, which when slid down blocked my view of the door. I pushed it up, and standing there in the doorway was a man in black pants, a black hooded sweatshirt, black sunglasses, and a black bandanna wrapped over his mouth. I could just see the top of his black moustache under his nose.
And a gun. Black automatic looking something or other, pointed straight at my stomach. I could feel my guts clenching where he was pointing the gun at me. The opening looked about two feet across staring down at it.
Fortunately, my hands were already raised from pushing up the cigarette rack. My mouth went dry, and I couldn't speak for a second.
I didn't have to - he did. "I want the money in the register, your wallet, and the setup drawer for the morning shift in the back."
"Yes, sir," I said. His voice sounded deep, flat, and normal, meaning not strung out and I might get out of this alive. I pulled the drawer out of the register, and pulled out the bills.
"Your wallet."
I reached down. "It's in my back pocket, I'm just reaching down for it, and now I'm pulling it out and putting it on the table." Not sure why I was talking him through it - just seemed like a good idea to slowly explain every motion to the man with the gun.
He looked around. "Is there anyone in the back room?"
My mind froze. Yes - Gina. Still filling out here paperwork and hour and a half after her shift ended. Gina, who started making high pitched squeaking noises from three customers in line. And what will she do with an armed robbery?
It was clear now. She will panic and flip out. And we're gonna die. It had all been going so well.
"Yes," I squeaked out.
He paused. "Fine - just give me the bills in the register."
I pulled them out as quick as I could, and he stuffed them into his pockets. "Don't even think of picking up that phone," he said, and ran out the door.
I slowly counted to thirty, and listened for the sound of a car. I didn't hear one. Waited again, picked up the phone, hit 911.
"Yes, sir - how can we help you?"
"I'm at the Irving Station in Augusta near UMA and we were just held up." I was reassured someone was on the way, and hung up the phone.
At that moment, Gina opened the door. "Did you just say we got robbed?"
My legs gave out - the adrenaline that had been keeping me up swept out and dropped me to the floor. I sat for a few moments while Gina got me some coffee, and then the police arrived.
I knew the officer, and he looked a bit sheepish walking in. Irving had a policy of free coffee for law enforcement, but the Maine State Police had told officers about a week before that they couldn't accept free coffee. The robbery had happened during the time he was normally getting his first cup of the overnight.
The only part of the questioning that annoyed me was listening to Gina talking about the two men at the window behind the building talking back and forth, and how grateful she'd been when then finally shut up and went away right after Jake left. She could finish her counting now that they weren't muttering back there. She didn't think they could have had anything to do with it though. And she nearly broke down sobbing when her husband came to get her.
At that point I finally called my manager to tell him what had happened - he was on vacation for a few days, and had asked he not be called. But I figured this was important.
"What happened? Alright - I gotta call the guy at the office up in Bangor. There's someone who's sent out when stores get held up. Should be there in a couple of hours. And you can't run the register until he gets there. Just lock the door from the inside and wait for him."
"Ummm...you're not coming out?"
"I'm on vacation. Unless you want me to call Martin to keep you company until the guy gets there - I could probably squeak that pay authorization by."
It was 12:30 by this point. Martin was a recently divorced, bitter, angry man given to loud rants about women and the unfairness of life. Not really who I had in mind for company.
"No, I'll be fine. I'll just clean."
He started to say something about buffing, and I hung up on him.
Everyone cleared out, and I locked the door. I drew a sign in marker saying "CLOSED" and taped it to the window. Then made a fresh pot of coffee, and started cleaning.
Most people who came by saw the sign, shrugged, and walked off. I was feeling a bit skittish, so anytime I saw headlights I headed for the back. The only time I came out was when I heard banging and someone screaming "I know you're in there - I see your FUCKING CAR."
I looked - not the holdup guy. He had long scraggly hair. "We're closed. Can't unlock the door."
"I need a gallon of milk and I need it RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Just one gallon."
I point at the sign. "We got held up - I can't sell anything tonight."
"Just one gallon, you ungrateful shit! This is a store!"
"And there are others open 24 hours - go away."
He stood there, staring at the window, fist raised to start pounding again. The he relaxed it, hung his head down, and walked back toward his car. He pulled out of the driveway at a snails pace, looked over to see if I'd changed my mind, then peeled out of the parking lot and off into the night.
Finally, at about 3am, the guy from Irving Central shows up. He took a look around and asked me where my manager was.
"Home sleeping, I guess."
He raised an eyebrow. "You got held up and he didn't come in?"
I shook my head. He wrote down something in a notebook, pulled the register tape out of the cash register, and then got down to helping me clean the store. He even showed me how to change the pad on the buffer so the floor was actually clean.
Betty, who is on first shift, came in and was surprised to see the HQ guy. I explained what happened, and she gasped. "Oh you poor thing! And you were here by yourself all night! How could he!"
"I'll be okay. But for right now I just need to go home and get sleep - I'm on tomorrow night."
She gasped. "Are you sure you'll feel safe?"
I nodded. "What, they're gonna hit the same store twice in two nights?"
I walked out to my car, climbed in, and started it. Friends from college were coming up to visit - it was spring break week, and they were going slightly crazy at home. There would be a chance to talk, decompress, and sort it all now. But right now, I needed breakfast.
Well THAT was annoying
So apparently my adorable little hitcounter was a VIRUS that set the blog to a redirect to some marketing page. Done and gone, hopefully. New hit counter on, as I have to admit I was enjoying seeing the number of people reading it.
More real posting later.
More real posting later.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Bringing down the hammer
Collections is a numbers game - you put up the numbers, and you're a good collector. It really does just come down to the money you bring in. That is the goal, that is our job.
And in an honest assessment of my collection skills - I suck. I have consistently failed to hit my targets, and not by small amounts. For whatever reason, I can't translate the skips and the work into programs.
In November, the pay structure for collections changed radically due to guidelines for debt collectors pay for student loan collections. Given the attrition due to low pay previously, now collectors who didn't hit goal would conceivably just stay on due to the increase in pay.
And it was big - increase from $8/hr to $12/hr. So there is now a series of monthly disciplinary measures if you can't hit your targets. They are a "coaching note", a verbal warning, a written warning, and a Final Written Warning, and then you're fired.
I got my Final Written Warning today. If I don't hit goal by the end of March, I'm fired. (Though eligible for unemployment benefits - I checked on that already.)
There will still be more posts at the end of the month even if I do find myself out the door. I didn't start writing posts about collections until several months in, and there are still multiple stories to be told. But the end of the line may be approaching, for good, bad, or indifferent. The posts for the next month or so may be a reflection of that - what makes a good collector, looking at those who succeed and those who don't, and the reason for it.
And in the end, seeing if I can pull it off, or if maybe discovering being a failure as a collector may not be a bad thing in the long run.
And in an honest assessment of my collection skills - I suck. I have consistently failed to hit my targets, and not by small amounts. For whatever reason, I can't translate the skips and the work into programs.
In November, the pay structure for collections changed radically due to guidelines for debt collectors pay for student loan collections. Given the attrition due to low pay previously, now collectors who didn't hit goal would conceivably just stay on due to the increase in pay.
And it was big - increase from $8/hr to $12/hr. So there is now a series of monthly disciplinary measures if you can't hit your targets. They are a "coaching note", a verbal warning, a written warning, and a Final Written Warning, and then you're fired.
I got my Final Written Warning today. If I don't hit goal by the end of March, I'm fired. (Though eligible for unemployment benefits - I checked on that already.)
There will still be more posts at the end of the month even if I do find myself out the door. I didn't start writing posts about collections until several months in, and there are still multiple stories to be told. But the end of the line may be approaching, for good, bad, or indifferent. The posts for the next month or so may be a reflection of that - what makes a good collector, looking at those who succeed and those who don't, and the reason for it.
And in the end, seeing if I can pull it off, or if maybe discovering being a failure as a collector may not be a bad thing in the long run.
622
Finally, out of idle curiosity, I installed a hit counter on the blog, and this was the number of hits to the blog so far.
I know for the internet this is a puny number of hits, but consider that the blog is really flying under the radar. I set the blog to not be hit by search engines for any subject, and I only post the occasional hit to Facebook to say there is a new post.
For those who are reading - thank you. I'm glad you're finding it interesting. I'm thinking that I'd like to expand some of the posts to longer essays, and if anyone has any feedback or interest in what they'd like to see, I'm open to suggestions.
Unfortunately, at this point I need to get sleep to be able to function tomorrow. Post comments if you have something you'd like to say, and I'm glad you're enjoying the blog.
I know for the internet this is a puny number of hits, but consider that the blog is really flying under the radar. I set the blog to not be hit by search engines for any subject, and I only post the occasional hit to Facebook to say there is a new post.
For those who are reading - thank you. I'm glad you're finding it interesting. I'm thinking that I'd like to expand some of the posts to longer essays, and if anyone has any feedback or interest in what they'd like to see, I'm open to suggestions.
Unfortunately, at this point I need to get sleep to be able to function tomorrow. Post comments if you have something you'd like to say, and I'm glad you're enjoying the blog.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Disability
Accidents and unforeseen events happen - they twirl your life in an instant, and the effects are felt for the rest of your existence. For example, the guy who was going to school for massage therapy and got in an accident that wrecked his ability to use his right arm and leg. Shouldn't there be some way to dismiss his student loan?
You'd think so, as it would make sense. But the simple truth is that for a student loan to be dismissed, the disability has to be 100%. 100% unable to ever work again or hold any kind of job, signed off by a doctor, and they will actively consider charging off your student loan. But not necessarily.
The theory is that if you can be retrained in some other job, you shouldn't have your loan discharged simply because you're not doing what you studied to do. And if we started down that slippery slope, where do you draw the line? Can computer programmers who spent 80K on student loans to study BASIC in the 80's claim they don't have to pay loans now? So the bar is set at 100%.
The disability issues that come up for me are most often not physical, but mental disabilities. People who started school, then developed some form of mental illness and had to drop out, but still have to repay on their student loans. And I have to try to contact them to get them out of default.
If someone is at the point of being in an institution or under constant care, the family will usually stonewall and ignore collection requests. And get mighty cranky when you can't reveal the issue to them. I had one such conversation with a parent who figured out who I was, and I dodged disclosure issues by just letting her talk. Her son developed acute schizophrenia after his first year of college, and she was caring for him and wanted to deal with this.
"But I'll need his permission to discuss this with you."
"He's too far gone - he doesn't even know what's happening. It's a whole world of delusion."
Sigh. "Can he get on the phone and answer 'Yeah' to a question?"
"That's mostly all he says."
"Then put him on the phone. I just need him to say 'yeah' for the recordings."
I could hear him humming when I asked him who he was. "Yeah." Is this your SSN? "Yeah." Can I talk with your mom about this loan. "Yeah. Hee hee. Yeah."
This was early in my collections, and I steered her toward the disability option. Knowing what I know now, I wish I hadn't.
There is a societal bias against mental illness as a 'real' disability. There is the impression it is faked, or that the brain is not permanently damageable. So getting a student loan charged off for a mental disability is nearly impossible.
For the most part, anyone with a serious mental illness is living far enough out on the edge that defaulted student loans aren't an issue. But people calling and telling them things is a huge issue. And the stress falls on the caregivers and relatives who are just trying to allow their loved ones to live in peace.
A good example of this is someone I am trying to get into a hardship program and have for a while now. I knew from the first few conversations that something wasn't right, but I managed to walk her through a financial statement and references. She told me she couldn't pay on it, that she knew she couldn't pay and that all of her loved ones were telling her she didn't have to worry about it. I played as mellow as I could, got her qualified for the hardship program, and tried to get everything settled.
In the end, she told me her sister told her not to send in the paperwork. I asked her why, and she said her sister told her it was not her problem. I asked if I could call her sister and talk with her about it, and she said yes, she'd given me her sister's information anyway. So call her.
And I did. The conversation started badly, as the sister's husband answered the phone, and initially thought I was a scam artist, then "realized" I was just an asshole bill collector trying to harass his sister-in-law to get money from her. I almost hung up at a couple of different points in the conference call between me, him, and the borrower's sister out of sheer frustration. I was on the phone with them for 45 minutes, which is an eternity in collections.
In the end, I think I explained the program well. The best benefits being that since she didn't have the money to make payments that there wouldn't be any payments, and the calls from collection companies would stop. It's the conversation I wish I could have with that mother, if only I knew then what I know now.
I am amazed by people who have that sort of devotion to siblings. I hope I can stop the merry-go-round for them to get this taken care of. Calls like that make me feel like I'm actually doing something useful and helpful, which is a nice delusion to have.
You'd think so, as it would make sense. But the simple truth is that for a student loan to be dismissed, the disability has to be 100%. 100% unable to ever work again or hold any kind of job, signed off by a doctor, and they will actively consider charging off your student loan. But not necessarily.
The theory is that if you can be retrained in some other job, you shouldn't have your loan discharged simply because you're not doing what you studied to do. And if we started down that slippery slope, where do you draw the line? Can computer programmers who spent 80K on student loans to study BASIC in the 80's claim they don't have to pay loans now? So the bar is set at 100%.
The disability issues that come up for me are most often not physical, but mental disabilities. People who started school, then developed some form of mental illness and had to drop out, but still have to repay on their student loans. And I have to try to contact them to get them out of default.
If someone is at the point of being in an institution or under constant care, the family will usually stonewall and ignore collection requests. And get mighty cranky when you can't reveal the issue to them. I had one such conversation with a parent who figured out who I was, and I dodged disclosure issues by just letting her talk. Her son developed acute schizophrenia after his first year of college, and she was caring for him and wanted to deal with this.
"But I'll need his permission to discuss this with you."
"He's too far gone - he doesn't even know what's happening. It's a whole world of delusion."
Sigh. "Can he get on the phone and answer 'Yeah' to a question?"
"That's mostly all he says."
"Then put him on the phone. I just need him to say 'yeah' for the recordings."
I could hear him humming when I asked him who he was. "Yeah." Is this your SSN? "Yeah." Can I talk with your mom about this loan. "Yeah. Hee hee. Yeah."
This was early in my collections, and I steered her toward the disability option. Knowing what I know now, I wish I hadn't.
There is a societal bias against mental illness as a 'real' disability. There is the impression it is faked, or that the brain is not permanently damageable. So getting a student loan charged off for a mental disability is nearly impossible.
For the most part, anyone with a serious mental illness is living far enough out on the edge that defaulted student loans aren't an issue. But people calling and telling them things is a huge issue. And the stress falls on the caregivers and relatives who are just trying to allow their loved ones to live in peace.
A good example of this is someone I am trying to get into a hardship program and have for a while now. I knew from the first few conversations that something wasn't right, but I managed to walk her through a financial statement and references. She told me she couldn't pay on it, that she knew she couldn't pay and that all of her loved ones were telling her she didn't have to worry about it. I played as mellow as I could, got her qualified for the hardship program, and tried to get everything settled.
In the end, she told me her sister told her not to send in the paperwork. I asked her why, and she said her sister told her it was not her problem. I asked if I could call her sister and talk with her about it, and she said yes, she'd given me her sister's information anyway. So call her.
And I did. The conversation started badly, as the sister's husband answered the phone, and initially thought I was a scam artist, then "realized" I was just an asshole bill collector trying to harass his sister-in-law to get money from her. I almost hung up at a couple of different points in the conference call between me, him, and the borrower's sister out of sheer frustration. I was on the phone with them for 45 minutes, which is an eternity in collections.
In the end, I think I explained the program well. The best benefits being that since she didn't have the money to make payments that there wouldn't be any payments, and the calls from collection companies would stop. It's the conversation I wish I could have with that mother, if only I knew then what I know now.
I am amazed by people who have that sort of devotion to siblings. I hope I can stop the merry-go-round for them to get this taken care of. Calls like that make me feel like I'm actually doing something useful and helpful, which is a nice delusion to have.
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